Bitterness is a Paralytic
by foreverwholocked
Summary: "You didn't just kill four people because you're bitter. Bitterness is a paralytic; love is a much more vicious motivator."
1. Chapter 1

For a year since Sherlock's death, John had been trying to get back his old life. The one that he had before meeting the consulting detective. That one which insisted that he was an ordinary person who wanted an ordinary wife and ordinary kids. But the life he'd had with Sherlock was the life he never knew he wanted. Sherlock had him hooked from the word 'dangerous' and he had never looked back.

Until now.

John was suddenly forced back to a life without Sherlock Holmes, the man who'd he'd accepted as his best friend, and he realised only when it was too late that he had never thanked him for what he'd done.

The first few months without Sherlock were not much unlike Hell. John didn't do much but just sit alone in the flat quietly by himself, staring at Sherlock's seat and replaying all of the animated conversations they'd shared. He remembered the first time they'd both sat down there- with a pink case between them. He smiled very slightly at the memory. It was strange to think back to so long ago when he had had a vague suspicion that the man in front of him was insane.

He thought forward to when they had played Cluedo- John had been winning and Sherlock kept exclaiming that the game made no sense and the rules were ridiculous, and at the end he refused to accept that he was the murderer without knowing he was the murderer to start with. Occasionally he'd look back over the newspaper clippings he'd collected of the cases they'd solved, and contemplated how ignorant they were of what was ahead of them. Of what Sherlock would do.

Sometimes, John couldn't help but think that maybe, it was his fault Sherlock jumped. Maybe he was depressed (but wouldn't he have seen the signs?) and John calling him a machine and leaving him when Sherlock had needed him most had been the final straw.

John's life had been shattered by Sherlock's jump and at first he didn't know how to put it back together. He almost didn't want to put it back together. He didn't want to accept that there was a life without Sherlock waiting for him. A part of him believed the great detective to still be alive- that the words exchanged from the rooftop weren't talking about lies, but were lies themselves. He'd replayed it over and over in his head more times than he could remember.

"I'm a fake." Lie.

"I researched you before we met." Lie.

"Goodbye, John." Lie.

John refused to accept it was a lie at first-especially those last words. Sherlock wasn't dead- so it couldn't be goodbye. He'd come back.

John had had many sleepless nights debating why exactly Sherlock wouldn't just return to him now, and he decided to settle on his solution of that he had to wait a period of time to make his comeback more effective to the press. He remembered his first meeting with Mycroft. "He does love to be dramatic." If you couldn't call jumping off a building to your own death to prove a point dramatic, John didn't know what was.

Once deciding, after several more months, that maybe Sherlock wasn't coming back after all, John found it a little easier to get on with his life. He didn't want to believe it but he had to be practical. Lestrade had asked him several times if he was interested in helping with cases, as he was 'the next-best thing' to the great consulting detective, but John didn't want to ruin the nostalgia of a crime scene by going to one without Sherlock. He supposed it was a psychological association, but really, he didn't much mind it.

He moved out of Baker Street eventually, (living there without Sherlock felt wrong, and frankly a little lonely, despite Mrs Hudson) and continued his job, even though Sarah had been kind enough to give him as long as he needed off to get over the 'emotional trauma'. That's what his therapist had called it.

He'd gone back to the therapist since Sherlock jumped. She didn't help much, John thought, but it stopped everyone from worrying as much. He felt like he couldn't share what he was feeling with her. Or anyone. The tremors were back, too. He was fortunate enough that he hadn't gone back to needing a cane again, but not being able to write properly because of the shaking in his hand was more than a little irritating.

Being a soldier had conditioned him for dealing with losing friends. But he thought he had left all that behind in Afghanistan. He didn't think he'd need to go through the pain of losing someone close to him again. This time, however, he was more angry than sad. Angry that Sherlock left him. Angry that he didn't see any signs of his suicide before it was too late. Angry that he couldn't stop him from jumping.

But gradually, more and more often, John went out to bars with his friends and had a chat and a drink, worked harder at his job and earned a promotion, even tried dating a few times, although John never got much past first dates. He liked to think it was just that Sherlock had rubbed off on him so much that he was now an expert at ruining his own chances with women. He didn't want to say he was moving on- he didn't really want to let Sherlock go. Not quite yet.

He found himself visiting Molly at St. Barts every now and then. John tried to convince himself it was because he liked chatting with Molly - one of the few people who he felt could understand his emotions about Sherlock's death – but he knew deep down it was because he missed seeing Sherlock at work there, completely focused on his work. He spotted her every now and then giving him sad looks when she thought he wasn't looking, and he could tell what she was thinking about him. Pity for a lost cause; It was obvious.

Maybe he was becoming more like Sherlock than he realised.

At first John was completely oblivious to the vile talk about his best friend, but around him, the name Sherlock Holmes became synonymous with fraud and scandal.

John managed to avoid the worst of it by staying secluded in his flat, but once he started going out with mates again he couldn't help but overhear conversations about the former Sherlock Holmes; and it made him angry. Usually, he was able to clench his jaw and ignore the person on the opposite table talking about the Sherlock Holmes they thought they knew. John just silently imagined a retort in his head and tried to get to focus on his mates' conversation. He was mature- he could do this. This would pass. In a few more weeks a break-up between two other celebrities would be the centre of attention. That was how the media worked.

Except it didn't happen like that all.

It was a Friday, nearly a year and a half after Sherlock's suicide, and John had just ordered a beer from the bar at his favourite pub that he went to after work every now and then with some friends from the surgery. He and Sarah had planned to meet up there that afternoon, but Sarah had something come up, so it was just John. He had contemplated just not coming but he knew he needed to get out by himself more. And so, here he was, sat at the bar and staring into the amber liquid in the glass in his hands.

"That Holmes guy has got to be messed up if he made up all those crimes and then killed himself 'cause we found out the truth about him…"

John's focus suddenly came back to him as he heard that from behind him. He looked up from the drink he'd been staring at for the past ten minutes, scanning the bar for the mouth that had formed those words. He could feel the irrational anger start to boil up inside him; he let go of the glass, his hands curling into fists. There was no one here to stop him this time.

"I mean, what kind of demented person kills people to make themselves look good?"

The words were echoing around John's skull now, making him intent on one thing. His eyes found the target shortly after that last sentence. It was a mature looking man in a suit, hunched over a beer next to a friend by the bar. John didn't take the time to notice much else as he stormed over to him, eager to shut him up before he said another word about Sherlock.

"Hey!" John shouted, getting most of the pub's attention. But that didn't matter. He'd got the attention of who he wanted. In a few short seconds he'd reached the man, who was looking slightly concerned for himself at this point, and grabbed the lapels of his suit, yanking him off of the bar stool. "Shut up about Sherlock Holmes," John spat ferociously. He didn't care about who was watching. He was seeing red, and he'd kept his anger pent up for so long. The man gave him a slightly confused look, evidently slightly scared.

"What?"

"You heard me!" John exclaimed, shaking him once viciously. He could feel the silence on all sides now, but he was too mad to care in the slightest.

Suddenly, the man's expression changed, as if he recognised John. He smirked slightly. "Hold on, you're that bloke that lived with—"

"Shut up!" John yelled, cutting him off sharply with a punch to the face. The man let out an involuntary "ooft" and grimaced slightly.

"You don't know anything!"

John was vaguely aware that he was sounding like an offended child- but he was just so angry. He punched the man again, harder. The lady with him, who, upon closer inspection, was obviously his fiancée, was now trying and failing to get John off of her partner.

John pulled his hand back for another punch, this time aiming for the stomach, when he was suddenly grabbed from behind by a strong pair of arms, and pulled back. John yelled profusely for this new person to get off of him, but he was still being dragged backwards. He tried to turn around but the man's arms were locked tightly so that his upper half couldn't move an inch. He struggled against the man and shouted more. Evidently, the man got tired of John's voice as he put a large hand over his mouth to muffle the large amount of noise he was making.

John was pulled through the doors of the pub, and as he was taken out, he saw the judgmental, even scared looks some people were giving him. That caused him to calm down somewhat. He was scaring a lot of people; some of whom he recognised as regulars to the pub like himself. The arms that had been restraining him let go once they were out on the pavement, but John was still staring through the front window at the man he'd just attacked. He had a bloody nose. John hadn't even noticed.

John felt a little sick all of a sudden; he couldn't believe he'd just done that to a really rather innocent person.

"Oi- don't even think of going back in there, mate," his kidnapper warned in a gruff voice. John looked at the man. He had to move his gaze up by quite a bit to see his face. He was a tall man with a strong build. He had messy light blonde hair that stuck out at odd angles, like he'd just chopped chunks off when he felt they'd gotten too long. He had piercing blue eyes, which John quickly ignored, as they were similar to Sherlock's. Everything else, however, was very not Sherlock. The man wore a grey t-shirt and scruffy dark jeans. John also noticed the twisted, pale skin on the man's left bicep, as if he'd broken his arm or been shot.

John licked his lips before smiling politely. "Uh- no. No, I'm not going to," he laughed quietly. "Thanks for taking me out of there. God knows what I would've done to that poor bloke." He ran a hand through his hair, his breathing still slightly heavy as he calmed down.

The man looked at him skeptically. John wasn't surprised that he didn't quite believe him. "I'm John," he blurted, wanting to quickly change the subject and forget this mess. He noticed the man cracked a small smirk.

"You're a very angry guy, John," he muttered. John didn't really know how to respond to that; but he assumed he was joking and smiled awkwardly. "Yeah…" He muttered quietly.

The man stuck out his hand and John took it. The taller man shook the other's hand firmly, with a tight grip, but John didn't flinch away.

"I'm Sebastian."


	2. Chapter 2

"Have you thought about ways to handle your anger?"

They were sitting at a table in the pub down the road from the one that John had disrupted, making a little more than just polite conversation, John would admit.

John had offered to buy Sebastian a pint as thanks for getting him out of the other pub before he properly hurt somebody, so here they were, both of them holding a pint of beer in their hands.

"I have a therapist," John said meekly with a slight shrug before sipping the cool liquid in his glass.

"Well, yeah, but— they're obviously not helping you much," Sebastian said, smirking as he took a swig of his own drink.

John looked up from his drink at that and raised an eyebrow at Sebastian. He tried to look for any sign that showed maybe Sebastian was joking, but he couldn't find any. Then again, it wasn't clear if he was being serious either.

Sebastian seemed to notice this and he shook his head, putting down his drink. "God, no, sorry— I didn't mean to be offensive. I haven't got a word filter, me," he joked.

John smiled. Frankly, this new blunt honesty that reminded him so much of another man he once knew was quite refreshing after all the numb words of comfort he had heard over the last year. "It's fine," he said quietly.

Sebastian smiled at that, and for the next half an hour the conversation flowed between them quite easily.

Sebastian had been a Corporal in the army a few years back, and had come to London job-hunting, which surprised John, because the thing was that Sebastian looked like the type to join the army. However, he also looked like the type to stay in the army until he got shot, and John's gaze flickered over the other man for any telling signs that he'd been injured. But there were none, which made John wonder why Sebastian had left the army.

John soon felt comfortable enough to tell Sebastian a little about Sherlock when the topic came up. It seemed that that topic always did eventually.

Sebastian was very patient, and listened to John very carefully, nodding in the right places and seeming actually interested in what he had to say. He waited until John had finished before he spoke.

"You know," he said softly, sipping his beer nonchalantly. "Sherlock Holmes is alive."

John choked on his drink, actually going into a coughing fit as Sebastian looked at him pitifully. That wasn't what he had expected him to say at all, and he stared at the man sitting opposite.

"I'm sorry— what?" John asked after a long moment. He was laughing now, but in that way that was necessary if someone had told a bad joke.

Sebastian was looking calmly down at his drink now, and he continued. "But of course, he's not going to come see you anytime soon," Sebastian said, almost to himself as he smirked down at his beer.

John's laughter had trailed off into an awkward silence. It had stopped being funny. He could see Sebastian was being perfectly serious. "Why are you telling me this?" He asked quietly. His mouth felt dry and he was starting to think that maybe it wasn't by chance that they'd met.

But Sherlock couldn't be alive. Because John would've known. Sherlock would've come straight back to him and explained why he had faked his death. Therefore, Sherlock had to be dead. So, why did he believe Sebastian? Was he really that desperate? He supposed that, really, he had never moved on from the mysterious occurrence in his life that was Sherlock Holmes.

Sebastian leant onto the table, smirking as he looked at John. "What would you do to see him again, John?" His voice was more of a low snarl, now, and John's instinct was to lean back, away from Sebastian, but he stood his ground, his lips pressed together in a thin line.

"Anything."

As soon as John had said the word he wished he could take it back, because Sebastian's smirk turned into a sneer, and he didn't like the look in his eyes. "Good. Because it might take just that to get him out of hiding."

John frowned. "What do you need me for?" He asked quietly.

Sebastian laughed, but it wasn't a light chuckle anymore. It was something much darker. "You can either help me or I kidnap you and threaten to kill you if he doesn't show." John swallowed.

"Right…" John looked down at his beer, swallowing hard. Why did he always have to befriend the crazy ones? He sighed, and then asked, "What do I have to do?"

Sebastian took a small object out of his pocket and slid it across the table to John. He picked it up and quickly recognised it as an ear piece. "Firstly, I want you to wear that every day. I'll give you your instructions through it."

The next day, John was told his first instructions; they were odd, but nothing he minded doing.

"Get a driving license."

John wondered how Sebastian knew he couldn't drive. And also, how exactly it would help him find Sherlock. Nevertheless, he started studying and got Greg to take him out in his car.

When the DI asked John why he suddenly wanted to take the driving test, he simply said that he wanted to start fresh and being able to drive would help him achieve that.

Well, it wasn't exactly a lie.

It took a month and two tries but John Watson eventually had his own driving license and was then told to meet Sebastian in the bar where they'd first discussed the plan. Sebastian ordered him (through the earpiece) to be there at two o'clock sharp in order to discuss the next part of said plan.

John arrived at the bar at two; one of the busiest times of day, he reckoned as he looked through the bubbling crowd. He couldn't see Sebastian, however, so walked over to one of the few free tables, by the window, and sat down.

He watched as people milled in and out of the pub, expecting to recognise Sebastian's shock of blond hair and square jaw at any moment.

Ten minutes had passed and a waitress asked if he wanted to order. He asked for a coffee instead of his usual beer, figuring he'd need the caffeine.

John's coffee arrived before Sebastian, and he blew on the liquid to cool it down as he waited. He hadn't heard anything from his earpiece in hours, and he wondered if maybe Sebastian had stood him up for whatever reason, when the man himself walked in.

Sebastian scanned the crowd and his eyes soon settled on John with a small smirk. He walked over and slipped into the chair opposite John, looking at him eagerly.

John couldn't help but notice, upon closer inspection, that Sebastian looked as if he'd been dragged through a bush backwards. The man's hair was ruffled slightly on one side and the sleeve of his grey t-shirt had a rip in it, and… "Is that blood?" John asked, pointing to the small flecks of dark red up his arm.

Sebastian looked down at his arm and raised an eyebrow at the marks, as if he hadn't noticed them before. He raised his other hand and rubbed his arm in an attempt to get rid of the blood (John was now assuming that was what it was), but it only really smudged it down his arm.

"Ah, yeah, that's part of the reason why I'm late. Sorry," Sebastian said, wiping his hand on his jeans. "That's what I get for showing my face around here…"

John nodded slowly and couldn't help but wonder what exactly happened to Sebastian, but his imagination gave him a grim idea.

"What did you want to talk to me about?" John asked after an awkward silence. If Sebastian didn't want to tell him through his earpiece, he reckoned it must be a crucial part in the plan.

Sebastian smirked and leant forward, folding his arms with his elbows on the table. "The key to this plan working, John, is making it catch Sherlock's attention, right?"

John nodded, sipping his coffee. That made sense- Sherlock was unlikely to do anything unless he found it interesting.

"I mean, you know him better than I do, but I've read your blog, so we both know what exactly catches Sherlock's attention."

John frowned at Sebastian for a moment before realising what he meant and his eyes widened. "You—" John looked around and lowered his voice. "You want me to commit a murder?"

Sebastian grinned, almost laughing as he leant back in his chair again. "Well, it's not going to work if it's just anyone, now, is it? Part of the reason Sherlock will be interested is because it's you who's doing it," Sebastian muttered.

John stared at him in disbelief. Sebastian was asking him to kill innocent people, the prize being that he saw Sherlock again. It was ludicrous, but John said he would do anything…

And what frightened him most was that he was actually considering it.

John swallowed thickly. "'Part'?" John echoed. If that was only part of it, John was dreading the rest.

Sebastian chuckled. "Well, we have to get him interested in the murder in the first place, don't we? He's not going to know it's you straight away."

John chewed his lip, looking down into the murky brown of his coffee. "What did you have in mind?" He asked quietly.

"A recreation of that 'Study in Pink' case you two did when you first met ought to do it," Sebastian smirked humming casually as he looked down at the table.

John's eyes widened and he looked up at Sebastian again. "That's why you wanted me to get a driving license?" He gaped, and leant forward, whispering harshly, "I'm not killing anyone like that, are you insane?"


	3. Chapter 3

John's first victim was a young woman.

He'd been driving cabs for nearly a month and he had kept asking Sebastian when he would have to start the plan.

Sebastian's answer was always 'Soon.'

Until this young woman stepped into the cab. "Her," came through John's earpiece loud and clear and John's first instinct was to turn around and tell her to run far, far away from him.

He didn't, though.

The pressure of his gun against his back was almost too much along with the bottles that he was aware were in his jacket pockets.

Before this, that gun had been used to kill the very person who had been in John's position then. Now he was going to use it on his own victims.

John hadn't realised the girl had given him an address until she repeated it. He apologised and set the car into motion. He had no idea where the girl wanted to go- he'd never heard of it. What he did know was where he was going to take her.

"Talk to her. Get to know her." Came through his earpiece and John wanted to yell at Sebastian, asking whether he was trying to deliberately make it worse for him.

But, of course, he couldn't.

It was one thing killing a stranger, but getting to know them beforehand was just cruel.

"By talking to her, I can figure out which bottle she's going to pick."

John blinked. That… Made some vague sense. Reluctantly, John started to talk to the girl in the back seat. The more he spoke to her the more he understood why Sebastian had picked her. She was quite drunk.

She didn't seem it a glance, to John at least, but he noticed she was pausing to think about a lot of her answers, and slurring some constenants.

She'd just answered John's question of "What do you study at uni, then?", and John was starting to worry, because they were nearing the abandoned office building and there had been no word from Sebastian. What if he had to figure out which bottle to give her himself?

And did he even want to give her the pills that would kill her?

When John pulled up outside the greying building (peeling paint, smashed windows), and the engine cut, the woman— Rebecca, finally suspected something.

"Hey, this isn't—"

John took a deep breath, and interrupted, "Shut up, and get out," he said , pulling out his gun and turning to point it at the woman. He swallowed, hating how cold he sounded, and hating the look of fear and betrayal on Rebecca's face (Stop calling her that.), her blue eyes wide as she stared at him in disbelief.

John simply stared back at her with a stony glare, already feeling sick on the inside. "Now," he growled, and she scrambled out of the car. John also got out, smoothly training his gun on her again. "There's no use screaming out. No one will hear you," he said, and it frankly frightened him how calm he sounded. "In." He gestured towards the doors of the delapidated building quickly with his gun.

He had never wanted his hands to shake before, but at least now, if they did, it would show John that he wasn't comfortable with this. It would remind him it wasn't right.

But his hands were rock steady, and he knew his aim would be perfect.

Inside, John brought the girl to a desk, and, shoving the papers off, he remembered the instructions Sebastian had given him.

"Sit," instructed John as he sat in the office chair on one side of the desk. It squeaked under his weight as he leant forward, forearms resting on the desk in front of him. He remembered Sebastian doing the same thing when he had spoke to John.

The girl looked terrified, and was leant back in her seat as far as it would allow. "What do you want?" She asked, and John could hear that she was trying to sound brave, but her voice was betraying her. She certainly wasn't drunk anymore.

John kept his expression cold and emotionless as he tucked his gun away under his belt- it would be better that way. "I want to talk to you," John said smoothly. Glancing at the girl again, John pulled out the bottle from his left pocket - the one filled with the fatal pills.

The girl stared at the bottle in confusion, and John pitied her. Sebastian had told him to do it nice and slowly, to savour it, but really, he couldn't see how he was supposed to enjoy this in any way. He wasn't evil- and he didn't want to put this girl through suffering for long.

"What's that?" She asked cautiously, glancing from the small bottle to John. Without a word, John sighed and pulled the harmless pills out of his right pocket.

"I'm afraid you're not going to be walking out of here," John said in a quiet voice, that to him felt reluctant, but apparently, to the girl, sounded menacing, because she squeaked and she looked around, desperately trying to find a plan of escape.

John knew there was no point in trying, though. He was the one with the gun. John licked his lips before deciding it was time to explain.

"Two bottles with pills in them, right? Exactly the same. The only difference is that one of the bottles have pills that are harmless. The other pills will kill you in a matter of minutes. Of course, I'm not going to tell you which is which," John said, watching as the girl fidgeted in her chair. "Understood?"

The girl nodded, chewing her lip as if building up the nerve to say something. "I have to choose, right?" John nodded solemnly. He glanced between the bottles. There was one part of the original murders that Sebastian hadn't mentioned… But he was going to add that in, he decided. At least then, he wouldn't feel so guilty.

"Whichever bottle you choose, I have to take a pill from the other one. You could kill me and walk out of here," John added quietly with a small smile.  
Frankly, he felt there was a good chance now that he was going to kill himself doing this, because Sebastian still hadn't told him which bottle to push towards her.

The girl looked appalled. "Kill you? I don't want to kill you. But I don't exactly want to die either." Her voice was trembling but the words rang loud and clear in John's head.

John found himself laughing. Quietly, granted, but the sound coming out of his mouth was laughter. He realised why. "You're not the only one," he muttered.

The girl raised an eyebrow. "Well then, why are you—?" She trailed off. "Is someone threatening you to do this?" She asked.

John smirked. "Something like that," he murmured quietly, looking down at his hands that were curled into loose fists in his lap.

"I'm sorry."

John looked up, startled. "They must be holding something huge over you if you agreed to do this," Rebecca explained.

John stared back at her with a somewhat vacant expression as a face passed through his mind. Sherlock's face. He pictured the last time he had seen Sherlock (his face bloody, no pulse, those eyes, usually so full of life, unseeing) before he was able to push the image away. He took in a sharp breath, flexing his hands. Yes, he'd do anything to see that face alive and well again.

John remembered he had a job to do in order to achieve that, and he smiled thinly at Rebecca, who was watching him with… Was that sympathy in her expression?

No; that wasn't right. He'd talked too much and now she was feeling sorry for him when he was trying to kill her.  
Licking his lips and making a snap decision, he pushed the bottle on the left towards her. The girl gave the bottle a quizzical look before looking up at John sceptically.

"Choose one." John didn't want to explain to her or to himself why he had pushed that particular bottle towards her.

He was pissed that Sebastian hadn't said a single syllable since he had arrived here and he was angry that he had to kill this perfectly intelligent girl, and frankly, right now he didn't care if she picked the harmless pills.

Rebecca's gaze flicked from each of the bottles, to John, and then back at the bottles again before licking her lips nervously and hovering her hand over the bottle nearest to her. John watched her carefully, but with the best blank expression he could manage.

Slowly, her hand curled around the bottle, and John reached for the other one. He fixed her gaze on Rebecca, who was frowning down at the pills in her hand. John made sure he unscrewed the lid at the same time as her, and he couldn't help but notice that her hands were shaking, just slightly.

John chewed his lip as he tipped one of the pills onto his palm, and, with a glance at him, Rebecca did the same. John tried to give a reassuring smile, despite knowing her fate if she swallowed the drug in her hand. "Bottom's up," he muttered, before tipping the pill into his mouth at the same time she did.

There was an awful moment of deafening silence as they just sat there, staring at the other across the table from them. It felt as if one was just waiting for the other to drop dead, which, John supposed, was what was going on.

"Leave."

One word came through his earpiece and with a start John realised Sebastian had been watching the whole time after all. John swallowed tightly, standing up. When he saw Sebastian again, he was going to murder /him/.

"I'm sorry," John murmured softly to the girl. He couldn't look her in the eye but he knew hee gaze was on him. He could imagine the expression on her face - completely and utterly broken, shocked, despairing. He didn't need to see it.

He turned on his heel and walked out, keeping his gaze on the floor as he headed back to the cab. He felt disgusted with himself.


End file.
